Rupert Godwin

FEVER-STRICKEN.

When the servant who had been in the habit of waiting upon Lionel Westford entered the young man’s bedroom late at night, in order to close the shutters of the apartment, he found Lionel lying on the bed in the state of unconsciousness into which he had fallen. The astonishment of the servant was very great. Several hours had passed since he had entered Lionel’s sitting-room in order to prepare the table for dinner. He had then found the apartment empty, and the letter addressed to Miss Godwin lying on the table. He had taken that letter to Julia, and had been told by her that Mr. Wilton had left the Hall for an indefinite period, and that his services would therefore be no longer needed in the chintz-rooms at the end of the corridor.

But now he found Lionel Westford lying on the bed, dressed in his walking clothes, and his hair damp and dishevelled.

Lionel’s face was turned towards the wall, and it never occurred to the man that he might possibly be ill. Only one idea entered his mind; and that was, that the artist had been drinking somewhere during his absence from the Hall, and had returned intoxicated to fling himself dressed upon his bed.

“If a servant did such a thing, he’d lose his situation,” thought the man; “but I suppose your artist chaps can do what they please. Miss Godwin seems to have an uncommon fancy for this one, but I don’t know what she’ll say when she hears of his goings-on.”

He left Lionel’s room, and descended to the lower part of the house. Julia Godwin was seated in the drawing-room; but she was not alone. Mrs. Melville was on guard as usual, with her eternal embroidery-frame before her, the very pattern of primness and propriety.

She had watched Julia narrowly since the coming of Lionel Westford, and she by no means approved that young lady’s evident liking for the artist.

The man-servant entered the drawing-room and told the two ladies of Mr. Wilton’s return.

Nothing could exceed Mrs. Melville’s indignation.

“Returned!” she exclaimed; “returned to the Hall without giving any notice of his return, or offering any explanation of his conduct, after writing a formal letter to Miss Godwin announcing his departure! I really never heard of such impertinence. What can he mean by such conduct?”

Julia said nothing. She had been cruelly wounded by the receipt of Lionel’s cold-worded letter telling her of his departure, and she had been very silent throughout the afternoon and evening. She bent over her book so as to keep her face concealed from Mrs. Melville and the servant, and made no remark whatever.

“Julia, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Melville, “did you ever hear of such mingled audacity and ingratitude? I am really quite distressed upon your account, as this person is a kind of protégé of yours. Are you not surprised, my love, and are you not indignant at such insolence?”

Poor Julia was obliged to look up as she answered these energetic questions.

“There may be some reason for his conduct, perhaps, Mrs. Melville,” she said gently. “He may have changed his mind, and may have decided on returning to the Hall. He knew how much I wanted those pictures finished, and he may have been anxious to complete them.”

“But, my dearest Julia, to return in such a manner, and to lie down in his clothes, just like some horrid intoxicated member of the working-classes! O, it’s really dreadful!”

“That’s about it, I think, mum,” answered the servant, with an ill-concealed grin. “I fancy as how Mr. Wilton has took a little more than is good for him, and finding hisself queer, he come back here to sleep instead of going up to London by rail.”

“Intoxicated!” shrieked Mrs. Melville; “an intoxicated man has dared to enter this house! Go to Mrs. Beckson immediately Thomas, and tell her to go to Mr. Wilton’s apartment and order him to leave the Hall without a moment’s delay. Not for an instant will I suffer an intoxicated person to pollute this house by his odious presence.”

“Stop, Mrs. Melville,” said Julia; “we do not know that Mr. Wilton is intoxicated; and I should think from what I have seen of his habits that such a thing is most unlikely. In any case, he must not be turned out of this house to-night. It is just possible that he may be ill. To-morrow morning will be quite soon enough for any investigation that you may wish to make; and unless I am very much mistaken, Mr. Wilton will be able to give a satisfactory explanation of his conduct.”

“But, my darling Julia, I cannot really suffer an intoxicated person to—”

“This is my father’s house, Mrs. Melville; and on this point I must beg to have my own way.”

Mrs. Melville gave a dubious kind of cough. She felt that she was treading on dangerous ground. Julia Godwin was a spoiled child, and the banker might be very apt to resent any offence against his darling.

“Well, my sweetest Julia,” murmured the widow meekly, “if you really wish an intoxicated person to remain in the house—”

“I merely wish to hear Mr. Wilton’s own explanation of his conduct to-morrow morning,” Julia answered quietly. “You can go, Thomas,” she added, turning to the servant, who had lingered to see the result of this little battle between the two ladies.

No more was said that night upon the subject of Lionel’s return, but there was some little restraint between the two ladies all the evening. Julia occupied herself with her book, which she affected to find intensely interesting; but Mrs. Melville could see by the subdued light of the reading-lamp that her face was very pale.

“There is no doubt as to the state of her feelings,” thought the widow; “the silly girl has fallen in love with this handsome young adventurer. I must enlighten Mr. Godwin upon the subject the first time he comes to Wilmingdon.”

Early the next morning the two ladies were seated at breakfast in a prettily-furnished room opening into the garden. Julia was still pale and thoughtful; the widow was still watchful of her charge—fearing that she might be blamed for any foolish attachment formed by the banker’s daughter, and might perhaps forfeit a most profitable and agreeable position. She tried to win Julia to talk in her usual cheerful and animated manner; but the girl was evidently preoccupied, and Mrs. Melville was obliged to abandon the attempt to sustain any conversation.

They were still seated at the breakfast-table when a knock sounded on the door, which was opened the next moment to give admittance to the portly form of Mrs. Beckson, the housekeeper, who entered, curtseying with profound respect.

“I am sure, ladies, I am very sorry to intrude upon you in the midst of your breakfasts, especially being the bearer of unpleasant news, as one may say, for of course illness is not pleasant, even when relating to a stranger, thank Providence, and not a member of the family, but still a remarkably civil-spoken and genteel young man, who has no doubt seen better days, which is the case with so many of us, only it isn’t our place to rebel against the ways of Providence; and I’m sure, Miss Godwin, and you too, Mrs. Melville, ma’am——”

Julia had risen, deathly pale, and trembling violently. She did not even make any attempt to conceal her agitation.

“For pity’s sake, tell us what is the matter, Mrs. Beckson!” she exclaimed, interrupting the rapid flow of the housekeeper’s speech. “Is Mr. Wil——is any one ill?”

“Yes; it is Mr. Wilton, Miss,” answered Mrs. Beckson. “And I think I never, in the whole course of my life, see any one in such a raging fever.”

Mrs. Melville turned uneasily towards Julia; she expected that the girl would faint. But there was no weakness in Julia Godwin’s nature; she had all a woman’s tenderness, but more than a woman’s courage and endurance.

She resumed her seat, and betrayed no further emotion, except such anxiety as any woman might reasonably feel for a person residing beneath her father’s roof.

“Have you sent for the doctor, Mrs. Beckson?” she asked very quietly.

“O yes, Miss! I sent off immediately. William Jones, one of the stablemen, has ridden off to Hertford as fast as he can gallop; but, go as quick as he may, it must be some time before he can get back with Doctor Granger; and in the meantime I’ve told Thomas to get the poor young man into a nice warm bed, and to bathe his head with vinegar and water.”

“He is very ill, then?” said Julia.

“Awful bad, miss! Since my poor cousin Caleb was took with the brain-fever that night last June twelvemonth, I never see any one half so bad—and this poor young man seems even worse than Caleb. When our Thomas went into the room this morning, he found Mr. Wilton sitting at the open window shivering just as if he’d shake to pieces, and yet in a burning fever all the time. And what’s the strangest part of the whole business, he was raving about murder, and treachery, and stabbing, and such-like, just for all the world like our Caleb.”

“Strange!” murmured Julia.

It was strange. A kind of horror filled the girl’s breast as she thought that this was the second person who had been stricken with sudden illness—with illness which reduced them from sanity to raving madness; and that the minds of both should dwell on the same dark and hideous subjects.

“It is enough to make one superstitious,” she exclaimed, with a shudder; “it is enough to make one believe that there is really some truth in the ghastly stories the servants tell of those empty rooms in the northern wing.”

That morning was a sad one for Julia Godwin. She wandered from room to room, trying to occupy herself, trying to distract her mind from the one subject upon which it unceasingly brooded, but trying in vain.

She could only think of the artist whom she knew as Lewis Wilton. He was ill—suffering; in danger, perhaps.

For the first time she discovered that this man, whom she had sought to benefit from an impulse of pure womanly compassion, had now become dearer to her than any other creature in the universe, except her father. A blush of shame dyed her face as the truth gradually revealed itself to her.

To love one who had never sought her love—to love a stranger, whose station was in the eyes of the world infinitely beneath her own—a stranger with whom she had become acquainted under such peculiar circumstances! What would the world say, should it ever know that Miss Godwin’s charity had ended by her falling in love with the object of her compassion?

Then, after some minutes of bitter and humiliating reflection, Julia’s mind wandered back to those long afternoons in which she had wasted hours talking to the artist in the laurel-walk or beneath the solemn darkness of the spreading cedars.

She remembered the low tones of his voice, the noble sentiments which had dropped, as if unconsciously spoken, from his lips.

“The world might despise him because of his poverty,” she thought; “but whatever his present position may be, I feel sure that he is a gentleman by birth and education.”

There was some comfort in this thought. There is no such torture for the heart of a proud woman as the idea that she has wasted her love upon one who is unworthy of her respect.

“I am not so mean a wretch as to remember his poverty,” thought Julia. “I know that he is noble-minded, generous-hearted, intellectual. What more can be needed to render him worthy of any woman’s affection?”

And then Julia Godwin bent her head with a modest gesture, and a tender smile illumined her countenance, as some good fairy’s voice seemed to whisper gently in her ear, “Ah, Julia, and you know, too, that he loves you.”

Even at such a time as this Julia Godwin could not repress the thrill of happiness that stirred her breast as the conviction that she was beloved by the young artist stole gradually upon her. But in the next moment the thought of his illness sent an icy chill through her heart. He was in danger; he might die.

Men, as young and bright as he, had often been snatched suddenly away in the very morning of life. He might die.

Julia threw down the book which she had been vainly trying to read, and went out through the French window on to the broad gravel walk in front of the house.

Along this walk the doctor must come. Julia paced slowly up and down, waiting for his coming with extreme anxiety. Several times, almost in spite of herself, her eyes wandered upwards to the windows of the room in which she knew Lewis Wilton must be lying.

The Venetian shutters were closed; all was still. Mrs. Melville came out of the breakfast-room, and joined the anxious girl in her promenade up and down the gravel walk.

Her presence tortured Julia, who found herself compelled to reply to all manner of commonplace observations at a time when her mind was distracted by secret anxiety. But the widow was not a person to be easily shaken off. She talked perpetually, and seemed as if she would not allow Julia to escape from her sight.

At last the doctor’s gig drove up to the door of the Hall. Julia hurried forward to receive him.

“My dear Mr. Granger,” she said, “I wish you to tell me the exact truth with regard to the patient you are about to visit: for if there is any danger, I must write at once to my father.”

Her manner was so calm and collected that the surgeon was quite unable to guess the real state of her feelings.

“My dear young lady, you are perfectly right,” he replied; “if there is any danger, it will be better for you to write at once to Mr. Godwin. In any case you shall hear the truth directly I have seen this young man.”

He entered the house. Julia remained without, still accompanied by Mrs. Melville. An agony of suspense tortured the proud girl’s heart during the interval that elapsed before the doctor returned.

He was not long absent, yet the time seemed intolerably tedious. Every moment Julia fancied she heard the surgeon’s step in the hall; every moment she expected him to emerge from the door.

At last he came. He looked very grave, and Julia could see at the first glance that Mrs. Beckson had not exaggerated Lewis Wilton’s illness.

“He is very ill?” she said interrogatively.

“Yes, my dear Miss Godwin; I am sorry to say the case is very serious. It seems to be rather a complicated case. There is rheumatic fever, evidently the result of exposure to cold and damp; and there seems to be some very great disorder of the brain, which must have been caused by mental excitement. I cannot imagine what has so upset the young man’s mind; but the delirium is of an aggravated kind. I am afraid the servants must have frightened him with some of their stories about the haunted rooms in the northern wing, for his ravings all seem to relate to some story of a murder in one of the cellars under the deserted rooms.”

“That is very strange!” exclaimed Julia. “I should have fancied Mr. Wilton was far too highly educated to be affected by any such foolish stories.”

“There is no accounting for this sort of thing. Superstition is not always to be controlled by education.”

“And you think there is danger, and that I ought to write to papa?”

“I do indeed, Miss Godwin.”

“You will require further medical help, perhaps,” said Julia. “Shall I ask papa to bring a physician from London?”

“No, Miss Godwin; I think there is no necessity for that. There is danger; but the case is not beyond the skill of an ordinary practitioner. If there should be any change in the aspect of the fever, I will ask for aid; as it is, care and watchfulness can alone help our patient.”

“Who is watching him now?”

“Mrs. Beckson, and the servant, Thomas Morrison. He will need very careful watching; for in those fevers in which the brain is affected there is sometimes danger of the patient doing himself some desperate injury. A man has been known to cut his throat—to jump out of a window. There is always a risk of some terrible catastrophe.”

Julia’s face grew ashy white to the very lips.

“For shame, Mr. Granger!” cried Mrs. Melville indignantly; “you have quite unnerved my sweetest Julia.”

“Pray pardon me!” exclaimed the penitent doctor. “I should have remembered that I was talking to a sensitive young lady, and not to a brother surgeon. I hope you will forgive me, Miss Godwin.”

“You have no need of my forgiveness,” Julia answered. “I asked you to tell me the truth, and I am very glad that you have done so. I will write to papa immediately.”

She had quite recovered herself by this time, and was able to speak with perfect composure. The surgeon took his leave, after promising to call again before dusk.

Julia despatched a servant to the station at Hertford, with a message which was to be telegraphed to Mr. Godwin’s London lodgings.

The telegram was duly delivered; and at five o’clock that afternoon Rupert Godwin entered his daughter’s morning-room.

“Well, my dearest girl,” he exclaimed, “what is all this melancholy business? Your artistic protégé seized with brain-fever, and you as much concerned about the matter as if your pet Skye terrier’s valuable life was in danger. What is it, my darling?”

He took his daughter in his arms and embraced her tenderly.

Infamous as this man’s life had been—hard, cruel, and remorseless though his nature was, he was at least sincere in his love for his beautiful daughter. And yet it was a selfish affection, after all—such a love as a Sultan might feel for his favourite slave. She was a part of himself, an element of happiness in his life.

Julia told her father the circumstances of the artist’s departure from Wilmingdon, and his mysterious return the same evening. She told him all that had happened that day, and the opinion of the Hertford surgeon.

“It is such a strange business altogether, papa,” she said. “Mr. Granger fancies that Mr. Wilton’s mind has been affected by some of the servants’ stories about the northern wing. He has done nothing but rave about a murder committed in one of the cellars. Papa, papa!—what is the matter?”

Julia Godwin had ample cause for this exclamation, for the banker had started from her as suddenly as if a thunderbolt had fallen between him. What bolt from heaven could have been more appalling than the words just uttered by his daughter’s innocent lips?

The father and daughter had been standing together near the open window. The afternoon twilight shone full on Rupert Godwin’s face.

When Julia looked at him, she saw that great beads of perspiration had started to his forehead. His face was livid; a convulsive trembling shook him in every limb.

“Papa!” cried Julia, “for pity’s sake speak to me! What is the matter?”

For some moments Rupert Godwin struggled to speak; but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.

At last, with a terrible effort he spoke; but even then the words had a strange, confused sound, like those of a man only just recovering from a fit.

“It is nothing,” he said, “only a physical affection. It is a kind of nervous fit that comes upon me suddenly now and then.”

“But, papa, it is very dreadful. You ought to consult a physician.”

“Pshaw, child! I tell you it is nothing!” exclaimed the banker impatiently. “I will go upstairs and see this ailing protégé of yours.”

There was an attempt at carelessness in the tone, but the banker’s face had not lost its livid hue. He hurried from the room, and Julia stood in the doorway looking after him, inexpressibly shocked and terrified by his manner.

“Is it really a haunted house?” she thought; “and does some dark shadow fall upon every one who enters it?”